The other day my friend Richard sent me a link to David Byrne’s blog, where he’s talking about visiting Paula Deen’s restaurant, The Lady and Sons in Savannah, Georgia. Richard didn’t know at the time, but I’ve been semi-obsessed with this woman since Christmas, when, while back home in Virginia, I saw her face all over the Smithfield Ham websites I shopped, and heard about her cookbook from my aunts.
Paula Deen IS my aunts. In fact, she embodies much of what I miss about the South. The too-good-to-be-true Belle Twang, using more words than need be, each one packed with an extra syllable or two. The Southern Baptist cooking philosophy (at least one ingredient in every dish comes from a can). The unapologetic abundance of butter and mayo. The big, dumb sons. The gettin’ your hair did until it is done.
I didn’t care for it when I lived in the South, but now that stuff’s like flannel sheets to me. Makes me phone my momma, even.
The Deen dishes I’ve tried have not all been “crazy delicious,” as she clumsily parroted in one episode of her Food Network show, Paula’s Home Cookin’. But I still hate missing an episode. I’m comforted by her exaggerated drawl, reassured by her smoker’s rattle, and hypnotized by her this-ain’t-my-first-marriage bling. Such a caricature is she, I at first thought she was a professional Southerner (Dr. Phil, Jeff Foxworthy). I’ve since become convinced Deen’s the reee-yull deee-yull. True, she leans on the ‘y’all’s pretty heavily, but at least she uses them correctly. (It’s a plural, people!) And her preacher’s wife enthusiasm may be faux by design, but this is the spin many Southern women embrace. It’s a garden club diplomacy thang. If you’ve ever been “bless your heart” –ed by one, you know what I mean.
So on the heels of David Byrne’s ink, the New York Times gives her some today. Haven’t read it yet, but I’m hoping it'll ease my grief over missing this morning's episode. “Back Porch Breakfast.” (I think I saw that one on the Spice Channel once.) Peppered bacon, the brownest of hash browns (brown = tasty), homemade sausage, and oysters in an upside-down baked egg thing. Topped with yet more bacon. And a cake. For breakfast.
Paula Deen IS my aunts. In fact, she embodies much of what I miss about the South. The too-good-to-be-true Belle Twang, using more words than need be, each one packed with an extra syllable or two. The Southern Baptist cooking philosophy (at least one ingredient in every dish comes from a can). The unapologetic abundance of butter and mayo. The big, dumb sons. The gettin’ your hair did until it is done.
I didn’t care for it when I lived in the South, but now that stuff’s like flannel sheets to me. Makes me phone my momma, even.
The Deen dishes I’ve tried have not all been “crazy delicious,” as she clumsily parroted in one episode of her Food Network show, Paula’s Home Cookin’. But I still hate missing an episode. I’m comforted by her exaggerated drawl, reassured by her smoker’s rattle, and hypnotized by her this-ain’t-my-first-marriage bling. Such a caricature is she, I at first thought she was a professional Southerner (Dr. Phil, Jeff Foxworthy). I’ve since become convinced Deen’s the reee-yull deee-yull. True, she leans on the ‘y’all’s pretty heavily, but at least she uses them correctly. (It’s a plural, people!) And her preacher’s wife enthusiasm may be faux by design, but this is the spin many Southern women embrace. It’s a garden club diplomacy thang. If you’ve ever been “bless your heart” –ed by one, you know what I mean.
So on the heels of David Byrne’s ink, the New York Times gives her some today. Haven’t read it yet, but I’m hoping it'll ease my grief over missing this morning's episode. “Back Porch Breakfast.” (I think I saw that one on the Spice Channel once.) Peppered bacon, the brownest of hash browns (brown = tasty), homemade sausage, and oysters in an upside-down baked egg thing. Topped with yet more bacon. And a cake. For breakfast.
GOD I want to eat on Paula Deen's back porch. And dish with her over Gooey Butter Cake and bourbon sours.
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